Broken In Islington
by opti-mnff
Summary: He's had a difficult time with words, but this... this is almost too much for him. It can only get better, right... right?
1. A Question and One Helluva Answer

_A/N: So I got this idear a while ago and decided to put pen to paper on it else risk losing my head in plot bunny induced madness. It's a chaptered affair, though it started out as a mere drabble on my LJ. Thanks goes out to a helpful word friend who gave me the real life setting - The Duke of Cambridge, an organic pub, and a tiny bit of surrounding North London - to use, because it applied 100% to what I have in my mind and, honestly, the food - and that blackcurrant vodka - sounds goddamn delicious._

_Anyways, I'm rambling... enjoy the story! Reviews are lovely and more than welcome, as usual. _

* * *

He really didn't know how he was going to wait the whole night without breaking out in sweat and mumbling monosyllabic responses, so Ron decided the best idea would be to just 'go with the flow' as they say. He'd stood up to trolls and werewolves - so what was making this so hard for him?

Words.

Words make it hard. Words are hard, he couldn't help but think. No matter what he said they would always be twisted and misconstrued, messed up by his mouth before he could process them and say the _right _thing. It somehow never made the relationship difficult, but going the next step would require a silver tongue - something Ron Weasley never prided himself on having. It was even worse when he was in public and people were expectant - and especially when Hermione was expectant and listening closely to everything he said. So, of course, he went and booked a date at a rather public, open gastropub that sidled along the busy lanes of backstreet London. She had fawned over the Duke of Cambridge ever since discovering it and had been, for the first time, happy to see Ron engorging himself on food. She was comfortable here, but…

His eyes flashed open abruptly at the sound of harsh snapping - Hermione's fingers were in front of Ron's face and she had a mixture of concern and laughter across her features. Everything seemed to come tumbling backward from his eager confidence and was now sitting squarely in a hole of nerves. Quite a few of them, too.

"Are you okay? Do you need a drink? You had an awfully long day..."

"Yeah, Hermione, I'm okay. I just need some food." She smirked and he laughed shakily, wondering where those old feelings were coming from. He hadn't been nervous in front of her in nearly two years, he hadn't sweat this hard since the first week of training, and he certainly never blinked as much in his entire lifetime as he was doing now. But those times were never really as difficult as this - somehow opening a box and asking a question was more difficult than jinxing a handful of Aurors.

He squirmed in the chair before a rather stocky, blonde waitress appeared seemingly out of thin air before them. Ron despised a great deal of the food that was offered at the Duke, he disliked the constant overflow of travelers and passerby, but the servers were, at least, half reasonable people and he had come here often enough with Hermione to get to know most of them. Glancing back down while Hermione finished her order, he was reminded of another item that made the place enjoyable.

"Any chance you've got the blackcurrant vodka in?" He doubted Hermione meant liquor when she mentioned a drink, but she only gave a snort when he asked the question. The first time Ron had tried the stuff he nearly vomited on the spot, but the tart aftertaste combined with the harsh and almost offensive alcohol made for a fairly satisfying, if vile, drink. That was, at least, until he took another gulp and the swill rushed through already sensitive taste buds and his brain burst into flames the next morning. It was then he decided it was his favorite drink.

"Indeed, we do." There was an awkward pause which Ron, now staring at nowhere in particular, seemed to miss. "I assume you'd like a meal with that as well?"

"Oh, yes. Erm, I'll just have uh… some water and the, uh, roast and gravy," he muttered while searching furiously for anything vaguely meat-based. The waitress shook her head and raised her eyebrow toward Hermione, who simply shrugged. Ron swore he would eventually decode what these silent exchanges meant, even if the knowledge at the end of the search would drive him completely mad. He didn't need to think of anything that might drain his already dwindling confidence, so he tried redirecting towards a different conversation. Anything would do.

"So, is there a reason _you _invited me here?" Hermione inquired. She had already beaten him to the punch and it was before he had even gotten something in his stomach. Food had been his linchpin and the easiest way to comfort his shaking hands, and she was getting way ahead of schedule.

"It's a nice night, isn't it? Minus the autumn chill, the people still parading down the bloody street, and snarky waitresses…"

"You were nearly drooling, Ron. I was a breath away from having to snap you out of another coma, myself." Hermione said, still with a hint of a smile on her face which certainly helped his shot nerves, "A 'nice night' doesn't explain why you took me out to the Duke before pay."

He rolled his eyes and noticed a twang of guilt from what she apparently thought was a wayward comment. It was true – the majority of the official 'dates' they went on were spurred on by Hermione and only when Ron had triple-checked his account and made sure his earnings were in for the week. The combination of financial awareness and blatant insecurity both annoyed and impressed her. It also didn't help when they both demanded to pay for their first bill – Ron on the grounds of being 'the man' with Hermione calling that idea 'gender bias' and chauvinistic. They fought but eventually gave in, reasoning on a split bill.

"Hey, I may not be a romantic, but that doesn't mean I can't treat you to something other than greasy burgers."

"Yes, and trust me I was pleasantly surprised you remembered that I like this place…" Hermione started.

"You drag me here every month," Ron interjected.

"… but you never once went to Gringotts or the bank on the way here. You never splurge, though I must say I am grateful you pay close attention to your finances-" Hermione's train was barely picking up momentum, but Ron's mind was elsewhere. Her voice trailed off as his mind started going to work.

_You never splurge_.

He knew what it literally meant, but the way she said it, the way she almost spat it out, seemed entirely unlike her. Perhaps Ron's conservative spending habits were beginning to bother her? Maybe she was tired of taking Ron to a familiar, boring and relatively cheap place, he thought. But then why, his defensive logic barged in, would she be 'grateful' and why would she be the one taking _him _there more often than not? And when was Hermione Granger ever anything but happy to see him paying attention?

"… and is there a reason you're staring at my chest like a Neanderthal?" Ron had again nodded off in thought, chewing on his lip and, apparently, staring rudely at Hermione.

"Oh sh- I mean… sorry." She had been comfortable with his increasingly vulgar swearing for a while, but when he started mentioning bits and how low they hung in public Hermione had applied a very harsh 'no-swearing' policy outdoors.

"It's fine, just make sure you're still looking in my direction next time you have a faint. I would be far less amused if it were some waitress you were ogling," Hermione said, glaring with an unconvincing brow and a half-smile spread on her face. His nerves were beyond help at this point – bouncing backward and forward between entirely destroyed and slightly hopeful – so Ron resigned himself to stop thinking so hard and just let his mouth do a bit of the walking. Before he could get a word in, and luckily that because he had just done another mental pass on commenting on her chest in public, the savory smell of beef wafted over to him. He had never been more thankful for an oncoming meal, or a drink, in his entire life.

The meals were laid beside them and Ron, never one to ask, hammered away at the meat in front of him – hoping that filling his stomach and afterwards absorbing as much alcohol as possible would help. It took him a few seconds of labored chewing to realize Hermione was laughing at him, and she was never a quiet with laughter.

"What?" He asked with a piece of cabbage still stuck on his fork just daring him to be eaten. He shoved it aside and skewered another potato. Hermione only kept laughing and before long he had to join her in fear of men in white suits and driving vans pulling her away from the Duke.

"It's nothing. Well, other than you attacking your meal like it were about to escape your plate," Hermione managed between stifled laughter. She turned back to her own plate and, to Ron's disgust, began picking at a glob of green and yellow mush. His face must have shown what he was thinking because she put her fork down and glared at him before saying, "First my chest, now my food. Is there anything else you'd like to scrutinize tonight?"

"Well, as much as I'd love to scrutinize your chest." And it was there that Ron's comment from earlier spilled out, earning him a woman shaking her head at him with an attractive blush sweeping across her cheeks, "I would like to know what the hell you're eating?"

"It's just cabbage and Stilton. It's the only thing on here I liked other than the mullet, but that's nearly twenty-"

"Did you look at the price of the roast? It's more expensive than the mullet, besides I've got the bill this time," Ron argued.

"I've told you what seems like a thousand times that we will split bills. Just because you're attentive towards your money…" She slowed down when Ron raised an eyebrow and the argument turned invalid rather quickly, "doesn't mean we all do."

"What is this really all about, Hermione, and I mean all of this money business? One minute you're telling me I never give you enough and then next you're trying to argue that I pay more attention than you?" Ron was taken by surprise by this sudden, and terrifying, conversation. His chest seized up with the realization that she was right and that this was leading into an argument – possibly a huge one if he didn't dive headfirst away from it.

"When did I ever say you don't 'give me enough?' And since when did I ever ask for anything?" Hermione's face contorted in confusion more than anger, but he could still feel the brewing heat.

"It's not about asking, you literally just told me that I 'never splurge.' So what did you mean by that, 'cause I only know one way to use that word," Ron said while trying to maintain the low voice they had adopted for heated arguments outside of the flat.

"Oh, you mean earlier? It's true, but I didn't mean it like _that_. When did I ever strike you as the girl who stared at baubles and begged for new dress robes?"

"You didn't, but that's not the point! What if I want to give you those things? I've got two years of savings stored up and I've been waiting for another excuse to spend on you besides the…" Ron's eyes widened and he opened and closed his mouth twice before taking in a deep breath and deciding that he had no other choice but to go ahead and do it now that he may just as well have pulled the small box from his trouser pocket. It was now or never.

Hermione had started to speak, no doubt catching his slip of the tongue, but Ron standing up from his chair must have surprised her because she stopped. When someone nearly half a foot taller than you stands up abruptly human nature and defensive reflexes kick in, and Hermione's were in full swing until he moved closer to her and pulled her up from her seat. He hadn't done much to prepare for this other than what he had gleaned from Mr. Granger, to whom he had gone both as a confidant and an advisor – for some reason he really liked Ron, but Ron suspected it may have had something to do with everything Hermione had explained to her parents about the war and about him protecting her. It also probably helped that he grew quite accustomed to Muggle football as well, even though half the time they argued about American football rather than watching proper football.

"Listen, and listen good, because I'm not going to be able to say this right if I drink that vodka." Ron nearly shouted, not caring that a cyclist had stopped and several of the neighboring diners were watching the strange events unfolding before them, "I _did_ spend quite a bit on you just a week and a half ago and I reckon you'd like to know before you go rummaging through my paperwork."

Ron knew this was his cue so, shaking and feeling the effects of a good meal wearing off quickly, he tumbled downward onto one knee, pulling Hermione down into a lurch over him. He mumbled an apology as she gawked at him, not bothering to straighten her posture. He figured this was probably a good sign, though he argued internally it could just as easily be a horrible one.

"I… you see, I was kind of bothered by all of that money talk 'cause, well, I'm guessing you'd think this a better gift than… err, no I mean you'd like it better if…" Ron's hands were trembling and Hermione's limp fists were no help, "Oh, fuck it – Hermione, will you marry me?"

Words had never been harder, and asking a simple question had never been more difficult. He had lived before Hermione Granger and he figured that he would learn to live after her, but that thought was what made him to come to this monolithic task in the first place – he realized that he didn't _want _to live in a post-Hermione world. He just didn't like the ring of describing himself as 'single' anymore and he certainly didn't like thinking about his name attached to anyone else's. Two years of a normal relationship had taught him that – everything from the incredible downs to the earth-shattering highs, from nearly dying of exhaustion in training to coming back to her afterward, her smile unfailing and bright as ever, had changed him. The broomstick ride that always ended in catching the winning Snitch had repaired him in many ways so that he thought he could never be broken again.

That is, until Hermione Granger only furrowed her brow and with sad eyes shook her head in a definitive, and damning, negative.

* * *

_A/N: DUN DUN DUHNNNN! To be continued... though I must admit that while I have the entire plot, and a majority of the dialogue, planned out, I don't have anything else written. Please be patient, because I'm in the processes of getting into actual coursework and pre-writing stages of a novel (maximum yikes). _


	2. Explanations and a Bloodied Fist

_A/N: I realize this could have been a really, really long oneshot but I'm mean and making people wait for the proper conclusion just gives me giggles. Plus, it gives me an excuse to have cliffhangers – painful ones at that. Now, onto the tale!_

* * *

He stared and stared, trying to forget what had just happened – she had said no. Ron didn't know how to describe it exactly in words, but the feelings of a thousand pounds dropping from your head straight down through your whole body, and a mild stomachache setting in, were enough to point him in the right direction. She had said _no_ and she was still shaking her head when she pushed past him and turned off toward St. Peter's Street, heading on the pavement seemingly as far away from him as possible.

He tried speaking to her when she shoved him aside, but the cottonmouth that felt like he had already spilled a whole bottle of the vodka down his throat was restricting his speech. It even took him a second of heavy breathing to realize he was still on his knee and staring at the box in his hand, crushing it in his grip. He released it to see the molded material had crumpled a bit and a sliver of felt had been pulled clean off the hinges.

"Pity, the bloke seems all right…" Ron heard someone say from beside him.

"Did you see him eat? A pig, from the looks of him… I don't blame the girl - she got away just in time." If his throat weren't as dry as sandpaper he might have told the woman off, but again he couldn't speak. Standing up, Ron grabbed the small glass of vodka and downed it in one gulp, savoring the searing heat and unusual taste. It took a great deal of his courage to turn around and follow the woman that was running just across the street and not sit down and partake in every last bottle of liquor until his vault emptied. Even as he ran towards Hermione, every inch of his body was screaming out to him to go back and take a bottle with him, because as much as he wanted to know _why _there was the looming threat of learning that killing him.

It didn't take him more than a dozen strides to match Hermione, owing both to his being much larger and still retaining a relatively fit physique - if one doesn't count the beginnings of a beer gut. As he approached there was a strangled combination of chokes, sobs, whines, and hitched breathing coming from her direction that was masked only lightly by the traffic along the street. She had picked the least public route to go cry along, he thought.

"Hermione, why…? " was all Ron could gasp out before Hermione turned around and, with no hesitation, shoved him backward onto the hard walkway backside first.

"What the… what _on Earth were you thinking_!?" She spat out at him, flaring up and face covered in still flowing tears.

"The hell d'you mean, 'what was I thinking?' I thought I made it pretty clear!" Ron didn't even rightly know what he was saying – the words just happened to tumble out of him in an aggressive voice. Old habit, he guessed, "I thought the whole asking you to be my wife thing was fairly obvious."

"I-I get that part, you lout! I m-meant, why there? Why in front of all of those people?" Ron truly had no immediate response for that. He couldn't really recall why he had waited nearly two weeks for a date when he could have just as easily done it at the flat the day after. Then, he remembered what had happened when he tried to do it that day.

In truth, he couldn't recall much because he had taken a small drink of a bottle of Firewhiskey he had held on to ever since moving to London – a house-gift from his father. The small drink turned into a glass, which turned into a few more, and before the night was out he had shambled over to roughly where Hermione had been in the previous hour. She told him that he professed his love to her and passed out immediately, face first into the carpet before she had to drag him back to the bedroom. Hermione had kindly not mentioned it the next morning.

"I was going to earlier, and then I had that drink last Saturday and kind of messed that one up. Why do you care, anyway? I figured it would be more… I dunno, romantic?"

"I don't… I saw the ring last Saturday," Hermione responded.

"So, you weren't going to say yes then?" Ron asked and he didn't know whether he wanted to hear the answer. From the looks of it, Hermione was having similar difficulties and the evidence before him was starting to line up. His brain kicked back into gear in the interim, and it started making sense – the lack of argument over the drinking, the need to bring up trivial matters that he never heard her complain about, the suggestive glances between the servers' usual jokes, and finally the kicker of saying no in public. He couldn't say with one hundred percent certainty what his brain had pieced together, but the most likely scenario was that she was calling it quits.

"That's… that's a totally unfair question." Hermione folded her arms and looked downward, which was not the reply he expected. It took Ron a second to figure out what she was trying to say.

"So, you were just going to string me along until I asked the question? Were you just hoping I would do it back at the flat so that you could let me off easy?" His stomach turned around in a multitude of directions when he finally had the words pour out of him. He realized then, in that moment, that he had been right. He had been right all along – everything from worrying over a first date, to worrying about the first time they took a break, and now finally when he had thought she would decline him. He had been wrong about one thing, however, and that was that she considered the same things he did. He doubted if she ever thought him an inseparable part of her like he did.

The thoughts came like a deluge, washing across every centimeter of his confidence and dousing his nerves like liquid death, and before long he didn't know whether he was glad he knew that she felt nothing for him in the same way he did. _He _may have wanted to avoid the post-Hermione life, but she was clearly thinking about a post-Ron life. The revelation both relieved him and made his insides shift painfully.

"I wasn't meaning to string you along, okay? I just... it happened at the absolute worst time and I didn't know if you would-"

"Did you ever even love me?" His voice interrupted like a dying breath, a whisper that she must have only barely heard. He had to ask it, and if she kept going he knew he would never get the words in edgewise, "Was this all a big joke to you?"

At that he pushed himself upward from the ground and stood staring downward at Hermione. What came next was not one of the scenarios he had figured would happen afterward; she _punched _him. Not a slap, not a push like before, but a well-wound and inexplicable hook. If the situation hadn't been so dire, he would've laughed at the sight of her standing up on the tips of her toes when she launched herself at him. Instead he went with the punch and just sat there caressing the warm reservoir filling up the inside of his cheek.

"How can you even ask me that question, you idiot? I did this to help you!" She was screaming, apparently having never intended to go down this route for secrecy.

"Wha yoo me, 'elp me!?" Ron could feel his tongue pulsate with each word – apparently Hermione either chipped or broke a tooth and the side of his tongue had slammed into the fragment. Still, the words confused him. What had she meant? Was this all a ruse to stroke his ego? Was it just a well-nourished, multi-year spanning joke?

"Ron, what's wrong?" He looked at her with a completely blank expression. It was obvious, wasn't it?

"Yoo punshed me," he answered flatly. Ron didn't know whether to push her off when she dashed up to him and felt the area around his left cheek, or to just pull her into a deadly embrace and hope she would be won over by the contact. He did neither and simply stood still with her flinging apologies left and right.

"Listen Ron, I meant that… if I had said yes then we would have been totally, and insufferably, miserable. I've been promoted, you see…"

"Tha's wonnerful… wha' does 'at 'ave to do with 'is?" He looked at her quizzically, not seeing where this new information fit into the puzzle.

"It's along with Mr. Diggory, and I'm going to be working with goblins for the next four years," she answered. Ron didn't quite pick up the thread she thought she had so blatantly left out, so she finished, "I'm going to stay with Mr. Diggory and work out treaties for four years, and I'll have so much to do that he's told me it will be sort of like a very extended business trip. Away from home."

This still made less than a lick of sense to Ron. What was she going on about? He could live, maybe vegetate for the first few days, but she'd be back in a handful of years so what was the big deal? They had survived the years where she refused to talk to him in school, the nearly six months they split up after school, her going to absolute workaholic mode at her first job... and it hit Ron. She was totally, and irreparably, dissatisfied with their life and where his being married to her would strap her down and leave her unable to move forward. She would be stuck because he kept her stuck there.

"And…?" He trailed off in expectation of her explanation and in the hopes that his thoughts were horribly off the mark.

"And, that means four years apart Ron. Do you really think we can survive four years of a long distance relationship, especially if you asked me to marry you? It would be torturous to us both."

"I still don't understand you." In between his question and her answer, Hermione had patched up Ron's swollen tongue so that he could at least give completely comprehensible speech. They had moved into an alleyway where the risk of Hermione pulling a wand out would be far less, "Are you saying that we're through because of your job?"

She swayed back and forth In front of him momentarily, and for the briefest instance in the arc of her swinging he wanted everything to just stop. He wanted everything she was saying to make sense to him and for her to stop saying things that she knew were half-truths on her behalf and even more confounding if he had said them. After the need for an answer longed inside of him, and time groaned onward in expectation, Hermione finally spoke up.

"That's not exactly what I'm saying. I'm saying that neither of us deserve to be forced into a situation we'll be unhappy with, and if I had said yes we would both go mad by the time a year-"

"So what you _are _saying is that I'm holding you back," Ron accused. He didn't want to believe the words, but he had never been less sure of himself in his whole life than he was in this very moment. He almost didn't care about what her answer exactly was, because his dead and crumbling reassurance and confidence were falling down around him and there was only one path ahead of him.

Hermione gaped at him, blinking rapidly and shifting her gaze from him to the ground and back through everything in between. She may as well have said it, as if her actions weren't clear enough he thought. Ron shook his head and turned around, trying to fight back the urge to scream at her and to pound his fist into the nearest wall. He succeeded in the former, but a bolt of pain had shot up through his arm all the way back to his shoulder from the swift contact with the nearest building. He could already tell he had broken something, both by the uncomfortable shifting of his knuckles and the blood seeping from them, but none of it really mattered.

Not looking back, he decided to make his way back to the Duke and order as many glasses of the most violent, fiery alcohol he could find. Maybe he would find answers there, since Hermione had not moved an inch before he heard the familiar, but horrible, sound of Disapparation.

* * *

_A/N2: I'm having way too much fun being this foul. Shorter chapter, but it's so dialogue heavy and action-packed I thought I would leave you with another gut-wrenching action from Hermione. I promise to whoever you swear religious fealty that I'll try not to upend my schedule so you get to wait between chapters, since I'm so very kind. Reviews would be lovely, even if they're to crucify me. _


	3. Broken In Islington I: Dueling Fears

_A/N: Quick update, eh? Don't expect much after this for a while. I happened to have some free time this morning and this chapter came quickly. It ends quickly as well – very short, but very important chapter. I'm now in a rush and the break in the middle of the chapter isn't working properly, so that's what that little ellipsis is for._

* * *

Hermione stumbled into the den of their shared flat, harsh cries threatening to come out but remaining as whimpers. She had made mistakes before, she had said words she never meant just to get a rise out of him, but a swelling ache was embedded inside and she knew she had messed up – and badly. When she found the ring she had been so thrilled that it took her a Calming Draught, normally for severe panic attacks she still suffered very occasionally, to stay sedate and refrain from telling Ron.

Now, with everything laid out before her, there was certainly no going back. Whatever tiny niggling doubt about her relationship would only fester and grow into malignancy, and she didn't want to feel that pain when in marriage, even if she had wanted with every fiber of her being to say yes.

_And you know why, don't you?_

The callous, harsh voice that whispered in her ear was startling but familiar. It was the same little squawk that she heard years ago with a locket strangling her insides, and it was a voice she had fought against since she was only a little girl. Hermione had grown beyond certain insecurities, but they were the faceless ones and the ones that held no great strength.

_Because you know when you're gone, he'll be left to think why he should bother with you. He'll be left alone, and without you nagging and annoying him he'll be free to do as he pleases – meaning women that aren't you. _

She shook her head, trying to distance herself from the words as she marched into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. It was the same bed where they first told each other how much they cared for the other and now Hermione just saw dying memories of years that she wasted. She could easily decline the job offer and find work behind a desk, but that wasn't what she wanted. Yet, at the same time, she had been so terrified of Ron's reaction that she pulled herself away from the only thing that made her happier than work.

It was all because of that voice, telling her that Ron would be overjoyed with her gone and it was the gargantuan might of that fear that caused her to say no in the first place. She didn't know how to respond to her feelings in that situation and the results were dire and more terrifying.

_You did the right thing, you know. Now he can live without you strapping him down for four years. _Four years_ Hermione, not to mention having to deal with you afterwards. He must already be thinking of all the girls he can shag now._

And then he had gone and accused her of being a shallow temptress, stringing him along like some animal on a leash. It was cruel, but given the events of the night she had to agree with his words – she had been an absolute hag towards him and he was only responding in kind. Or was he saying what he really felt, she thought. Was there the chance that he was ready to spring free of her grip? Maybe he _would _be happier without her after all.

Hermione never thought of Ron in any absolute terms as he was always a changing person whom she had changed alongside, but there were a few constants between them she had maintained for nearly six years. For one, she always took solace in remembering that they were friends that stayed together by each others' side in the end. The other one was that she loved him, desperately and whole-heartedly but now that was all for naught. Now those two seemed to crumble before her eyes, or rather hands, as she cruelly dismantled a part of her life she had so nearly had.

_Everything you've done is in your best interest. He's done with you, so you can go and play with your goblins. Go and shut yourself in and become the hermit you've always wanted to be. _

Tears had stopped coming, but the pain remained and the words hurt all the same. The idea had spawned in her mind from the start when she had been at school without Ron or Harry, and there had been a prodding thought that Hermione would come back to find Ron with another girl. She would find them and Ron would laugh in her face, shoving her out of the Burrow and shutting the door before snogging the girl with a ferocity he would never show her.

Instead Ron had visited every weekend he could, he had written letters on a frequent enough basis that she had more from him than her parents by the end of the first term, and when she had gotten back the only kissing that went on was between her and Ron. It had been fairytale perfect, and now she saw why – it was only a matter of time. Time dilutes everything, even love, and now it seemed to want to strike at the two of them.

Time had softened her to the touch of failure and now the only person she had to blame was herself. Hermione had recounted what she said to Ron, and the conversation made her sick to her stomach. She had let Ron walk away with a hand she knew was at least damaged, if not broken in several places and what he thought was a confirmation, and now she was paying the price.

Before she could take her frustrations out anymore, rain began to play across the windowsill in front of her and the light tapping turned into a torrent of watery haze. The first thing that came to her mind was that Ron was left alone outside in the rain, assuming he hadn't gone somewhere else to stay the night. Hermione forced that thought out of her head, but as soon as she did she heard a loud crack and then a screech slice through the air and halt the rain's powerful overtones. Someone had skidded to an abrupt halt, and there was never any foot traffic outside of this particular building at night. That meant only one thing: Apparation.

Racing outside, not daring to look out of the window, Hermione ran down each successive flight of stairs in the hopes that what she had heard was not what she thought it was.

...

He could feel tears burning in his eyes, but he couldn't tell whether they came from what Hermione had just done to him or what he had done to himself by stupidly smashing his fist against an unyielding wall. As the people around him murmured and pointed in his direction back at the Duke, he cradled the hand in his lap and stared at the bizarre configuration of bones. The middle finger was clearly, and quite badly, broken at the base of his knuckle where it awkwardly jutted out at an unusual angle. It seemed quite funny to him that something so integral to his body, his skeleton, could deform as easily as another part of himself.

When he had set out to ask Hermione to marry him he hadn't planned for her to say no, punch him, and then stomp all over him in the course of an hour, but he figured it was what he should have expected.

"So this is how it ends, eh? Ronniekins makes an arse out of himself, because that's what he always does?" There were fewer and fewer people outside now and Ron took to talking to himself, since barricading in his thoughts had led down a destructive path only moments earlier. Maybe it would make sense to him if he said the words out loud, he thought.

"Talking to yourself, dear?" The same stocky waitress from before had come back with drinks in tow. Ron had told her to give whatever the strongest he could get and she returned with a small bottle of gin and a look of concern on her face, "I really shouldn't give this to you, y'know. It'd be bad business if you got sloshed here and ran off a bridge in your car."

Ron laughed at the comment, almost as much about the car as the idea of killing himself over a girl, but grabbed the bottle nonetheless and began pouring it out for himself. He had never had the drink before, but had been warned off of it by Charlie. The reddish-gold liquid sat just the same as anything else he had tried, and a whiff of it confirmed that it smelled unique but about as awful as the vodka and without the slight aroma of fruit added to it.

It went down, but it received some serious resistance. If anyone had told him a liquid were dry, bitter, and painful all at once he would call them completely mad for suggesting it to him, but that same person wouldn't be able to tell him how good it felt at the same time. Ron could already feel his brain's gears getting clogged up and the pain in his broken and bloodied finger go away, not to mention the weight of a bruised ego. Another glass had gone down before things started to get blurry, and by the time the waitress had forced him off his bench his eyes refused to remain fixed on any one point and attempting to walk forward usually resulted in a splitting pain in his head.

"'Ermione, I'm… I-I'm a'comin'… I'm a'comin' 'ome," Ron managed to hiccup as he stumbled back to the alleyway where she had vanished from not long before. He tried fixating on the flat, hoping she would be there, but his head had started to hurt and it caused him to slump down on to the ground in the alley, "Guess not."

He laughed in shaky intervals with the smell of the gin on his breath threatening to upend his stomach, and before long his laughter turned into sobs. Ron Weasley was drunk on cheap alcohol, sitting in a gutter, crying. He hated crying, that much was obvious, but more so because of why he was doing it. Hermione was the one that was supposed to cry, not him – she was supposed to come back and say she was sorry, but he couldn't but think he was to blame for all of this. Everything was rooted back within him, where all of their problems lay. The only thing he could think was that he had royally fucked up.

"She's just… it's just a f-fling. A really, really long fling. Just a phase, " he attempted to reassure himself but every word just made his stomach sink deeper and deeper and he wondered if there was a bottom to this pit or if he would remain tumbling downward forever, "_I _was just a fling. Gotta get over it…"

Empty words, a disgusting drink inside of him, and a different kind of confidence surged through him as the sound of lazy, distorted Apparition echoed through the street. On the other side, all he could register was bright white light before a vice wrapped around his head and felt something squeeze with all its might against his headache.

Then there was silence.


	4. Broken In Islington II: Seven Less Three

_A/N: I lied. I'm productive and here's _another _chapter spilling out of me. Be happy as I'm normally not this excited to tell a story. Penultimate chapter a-hoy! I'm also amazed at all the people lambasting my depiction of Hermione... I thought I made it clear with that last chapter just how fucking terrified she is. Hopefully this chapter clears up the understanding between the two. If not, I've gone and screwed up. _

* * *

Ron didn't know what was happening, only that there were brief glimpses of bright light and then a harsh noise resounding in his ear. After that he couldn't piece together anything other than being laid out on his side, the cooling drizzle of rain all around him, and someone screaming loudly. It was a familiar scream and it sent his eyes into the back of his head before another light consumed him. There was a brief feeling of falling asleep before his senses came back to him but, upon trying to move, he found his other functions totally gone. Perhaps he was dead, he thought.

He had always imagined dying to be a really bland affair, and it seemed as though he was partially correct. The melodramatic ending was there, but on the other side it seemed to be just as dull and average as sleep. If he ever got the chance he would personally haunt every Muggle poet that Hermione had recited and laugh at their stupidity. Then again, he thought, was that how it worked? Was he all alone in here, or was there to be company later on if he could find it?

These questions, and many more, remained as he attempted to sit up from a woefully comfortable surface. That action was denied him and so too was something as simple as opening his eyes. Maybe the point was to reflect, and so he resigned himself to do just that.

His heavy lids refused to move, so he simply remained with his eyes shut to the outside world and taking in the comforting atmosphere in silence. It smelled of something generically clean and indistinct, but definitely there, and it intermingled with the smell of strong alcohol and a familiar fragrance. Beyond the smells and the noiseless calm there was also the feeling of a warm weight over top of him – it soothed him somehow, even if it barely covered two-thirds of his body from his shoulder to his shin.

_Is this what death is like? _

The words echoed in his head, but his lips refused to move. The smell of a fresh _something _and the warm feeling were relaxing, but he could not place either's origin and he went back to considering the place. He had meant to land in the flat, but the alcohol addled brain of a wizard barely made it onto the street and into the path of a car apparently used to the pedestrian free road. Grand design conspired to ironically end his life before he ended it himself or, rather, ended the link to something he considered his life.

Ron had never believed in fate or anything of the sort yet he had to contemplate it now. Was it pure chance that had pushed the two of them together, only to have them separated into two – he being left a bloodied aberration of himself and her the pristine temptress? Was this what was in store for him in this afterlife, one that was remarkably comfortable if nothing else? Or was the result a matter of choices, damnable options he had to choose between in hopes of the lesser evil and it was all in their hands?

Before the impact he had heard a scream and then silence, apparently considering himself dead, but now Ron heard another sound. It was neither faint nor was it an overwhelming roar, but the power behind it was staggering: he could hear someone crying. They were a woman's sobs and they were all too familiar.

_So _this _is how it ends? I die and the only thing I get to hear is Hermione crying? _

Anger flowed inside of him now and he couldn't tell who or what he was supposed to be so furious at. She had no right to do this to him, but Ron considered her actions at least understandable, if unreasonable – she was saving herself from misery. On the other hand, he had to reevaluate what his decisions had always been based on, that being Hermione. And now she had taken everything he considered good in his life and stamped it out, and was crying over it.

_But that's it, isn't it? She's crying to torment me further, not because she thinks she's fucked up. Now it's just extra for her._

The second those thoughts entered his mind Ron attempted a laugh. The squeezing pain in his chest caused an early end to this, but it also removed the sweet scent from near his nose and the weight beside him to shift. He had no right to accuse of her being heartless. Cruelty by misguidance, he mused. Before he could ponder this any further, the cries stopped and he was left in a silent void without the sickly noise to remind him. Straining to open his eyes, Ron did not quite see a white emptiness or anything equally generic like he expected. It was a sight that instantaneously redirected whatever feelings of hatred he could scrounge out of the bottom of the pit towards Hermione. The sight pulled them together and shifted the anger inward.

The weight on his side, the fragrance that smelled vaguely of a fruit he couldn't distinguish, and the comforting shape suddenly hit his still scrambled brain. Hermione was sitting just beside him and, he had to admit, she looked like _hell_. He had to be truthful about himself, though, because he was definitely in no state to say that about her.

Her hair, normally at least kept somewhat in check or tied up behind her head, was set about in haphazard streams and looked like someone had been tearing their hands through it and neglected to fix the damage. He expected her to look disheveled, having been stuck to him, but Hermione's eyes were the image that truly scared Ron. They were blood-red around the orbits, that much he expected, but they were congealed with a fine mist of ever-flowing tears and her eyebrows were turned upward as if she was frightened and not simply angry or unhappy.

The same golden brown aura that he would notice, radiating the intelligence and courage he always found in her, was gone and was replaced with an apologetic but wary glimmer. Strength didn't pulse out towards him by the contact and instead all he could feel was a weak apathy from her. Despite whatever he could think or even what she did, this somehow hurt more than anything else that had transpired. It felt like losing more than someone you loved or cared about – it was Ron literally losing himself.

"W-why are you here?" He expected resistance to come from his lungs but his right side was willing to cooperate for now. He figured he must be mending at St. Mungo's, and the scenery around him proved his guess correct. Hermione did not answer him, only shifting off of the bed and turning around from him. In a way he was thankful for it, since he would not have to see her eyes, but it spelled further disaster and he didn't know if he could really take it anymore.

"If you have to ask yourself that then you have severely misjudged everything about these last years. If you have to ask me _that _question, then you obviously have no faith in me." From the cover of the offset wall Hermione could rant into the night, but Ron allowed it. Her words weren't the hate filled invective he expected, but he couldn't stop himself from inquiring.

"How am I s'posed to, when you act like… like a…" Ron found himself trying not to say the foulest things on the tip of his tongue. He would have pounded any man that called her those words into dust, including himself.

"Ron, I can't expect you to. Nor do I really think you should, but you have to at least understand my motivations, please," she pleaded.

"All right," Ron answered, "talk."

She let out a monolithic sigh in response, apparently as if heaving a great weigh from her shoulders. She turned around but did not move forward.

"I was afraid. I've never been more scared in my whole life because of that promotion, but you understand how much it means to me right?" Hermione was speaking slowly, as if every word had caused great pain to her. Ron nodded an answer, "Thank you. I couldn't decline the offer, but yours was one I had to. I was _so _scared, Ron, about what four years apart might do to us."

"I don't see why you had to say no, though. Did you think I would jump on the first girl after you left?" Hermione had never been stupid, that much he was sure of, but he had never heard someone think along a more incorrect line of reasoning.

"Yes and no. The only thing I could believe was that you would be so much happier without me, and now I can't help but think I was right. If I can't even say yes to the easiest question in the world, how is this supposed to work?" She asked, apparently requiring an answer this time.

Ron pretended to pay no attention to her comment about his proposal, but it lit a dim hope in his currently crushed spirit.

"I thought that was the whole point of marriage? To promise yourself to someone and all of that stuff, so I still don't get it." He really didn't. Hermione's reasoning was breaking down around him and now he wanted a clear cut answer.

"Yes, but can you understand that I don't want to lose you? I hate repeating myself, but four years is quite a long time Ron!" Hermione finished in a compromise between a shout and attempting to restrain herself, which ended up making her sound like a dog's broken chew toy.

"You think I don't know about worrying? Holy hell Hermione, you don't even know the beginning of it. I thought you'd gone and shagged someone at school when we split last year, and-"

"You thought I cheated on you?" Hermione interjected, suddenly looking astonished.

"Well, not exactly. I just thought you had your fill," somehow he managed to repress a laugh at the comment before continuing, "but let me finish first. If you were so afraid of losing me then why, in the name of fucking Merlin, did you say no?"

Ron had let his agreement on swearing slip if only for a few moments. The words were juvenile, but they made more sense together when he was angry or, in this case, confused. At this point he didn't care about her admonishing him – she had already punched him hadn't she?

"It's hard to explain, Ron. It's just that… what if we-?"

"Can you just answer the question, Hermione?" he begged. He needed an answer, and now.

"Time, Ron. Like I said, time is the problem. Could this really survive four years without one another?" Hermione had asked the question quickly, and Ron had a response just as easily. It would be difficult to explain forthright, so he tried to think of a way to get her to understand it, because if she could not understand what he was about to ask then she would truly be lost. He thought first of trying to wedge something in about house-elves, but nothing he tried making up made any sense. In between his attempts, a simple calculation kept popping up - it was so intrinsically simple she would have to get it.

"What's seven less three, Hermione?"

She stared at him for a moment, taken back. Her eyes whirred back and forth and for second he wondered if this plan had been too vague. Perhaps the house-elf thing would've been more sensible or, at least, less insane sounding.

"F-Four… why?" she stammered out the answer, raising her eyebrow and looking at Ron with a whole new level of concern. Then, when he neglected to respond for nearly a quarter of a minute, she seemed to understand what he meant and her mouth opened and remained like that in dumb silence for several seconds. He had told her when he first really started having indescribable feelings for her. He had shrugged those off in third year as a weird passing though, but as the thoughts grew more constant and, by the time fourth year had began, exceedingly rude and untoward he tried neglecting them altogether. Ron didn't have to explain much to her after that, as he considered it obvious enough.

"I've waited four before, so I think I can wait four more."


	5. Broken In Islington III: Weight of Gold

People had always told her, some joking and some not, that she deserved so much more than Ron Weasley and that he didn't stack up to her, by anyone's standards. Hermione wondered who these people were talking about, since the man before her was thousands of times over a better person than she considered herself. The delicate simplicity of the question was loudly overwhelmed by the implication, something he clearly struggled to articulate but in the end had formulated to perfection for her.

_For me. _

Hermione always marveled at Ron's inability to see himself as someone of value considering how perceptive he always seemed to be of her, and of many things. Not to mention, she thought, how clever he had to be, and how intimately he had to understand her, to know that breaking down a diatribe into simple subtraction – she left this for a moment to think that it was an art, wasn't it? Removing the complicated bits and leaving only the necessary feelings open and bare – was far more powerful. And, on top of it all, he had a seemingly infinite wealth of care to give her.

That was why she loved him, and that was why her eyes widened at his final statement. This was a person that no one else had gotten to see in Ron, someone he reserved only for her and, judging by the rest of the night, it seemed he was willing to remain in reservation for her. This was a special kind of bravery, a different level of understanding fear and counteracting it – it was pure, undying loyalty. Hermione had considered the two things strictly related, but different enough by definition. Now, however, the gap seemed like such a logical distance and Ron was just showing her how simple it was for him to cross that gap.

In spite of the fear that she held, and that she told him of, he was willing to grab onto her and lead her to the other side. In defiance of any insecurity, no matter how strong or vile, he opened his arms for her to find comfort. In many ways, in ways it hurt her to know others wouldn't be able to see, Ron Weasley was perfect. Maybe not well-mannered, perhaps not even always tactful, but those weren't enough to make up the whole picture – Ron Weasley was _her _definition of perfect. She had never wanted to let go of him, but it frightened her beyond reason and beyond any intelligible thought process, and here he was; already telling her that he understood.

Then again, she had to wonder, he had offered so much to her to make that picture more tantalizing. Even the wildest of minutia such as brushing his teeth after supper, which she only suggested half-seriously when annoyed and grasping for straws in their arguments, were things he was willing to change for her. Hermione had difficulties in abrupt change, so to have Ron scoot aside how he lived his life for her to be more comfortable was a realization of how those words were more meaningful than anything she could have imagined. It was like a fairy tale, but she had taken the role of the evil witch – literally – when all she wanted was for the prince to come rescue her.

This was how she felt when she had ended their relationship just months after leaving school. She had been ready for redemption but she also understood she didn't deserve it. Then it was because they were both immature and handling the relationship in every wrong way imaginable, or rather she was, and Hermione called it off in the same fashion as she did that night – in fear. Hermione also became a recluse in that time, only ever going out for work and staying on the critical path so as to avoid Ron, and the nights staying with her parents were vicious and cruel. But, she deserved it and had attempted to work up the courage to apologize and try to reconnect for months to no avail.

Then, nearly six months had passed when they both collided into each other at work, desperate to find the other and fed up with the childish behavior. On the positive side of that encounter, and this was true of any of their more heated arguments, the makeup sex had been angry and fantastic, mind-numbing and cathartic all at once.

"But…" she stammered.

"Don't you have any faith in me?" he echoed her words from before.

"T-That's not it at all… it's just that… I don't deserve any of this, Ron!" she yelled in exasperation, "I haven't done anything to deserve _you_. I made a mistake, and I'm _so _sorry, but how can you even respect me let alone trust me?"

"I know I shouldn't, but that wasn't really you was it? You said you were scared, right? I mean, I do loads of stupid stuff when I'm scared." He looked a little pained to say the words, but only insofar that he was trying to find the precise way to assemble the sentences, "I know you better than that, Hermione. I know that my Hermione deserves better than me – she deserves everything in the world, and then some."

She would parse out later how he had, in but a handful of minutes, picked up the little girl crawled into a fetal position and unfurled her. Hermione would look at that and the ridiculousness of her deserving better than _him_. In the present, however, she could only hear two words in that entire speech that drifted lazily into her ears and promised her something she had been worried he would take away. It was something he had every right to hate, but somehow he was forgiving.

"_Your _Hermione?" she asked tentatively. Unfortunately, Ron seemed to have considered her tone accusatory rather than cautious.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that! Shit… I mean, sorry-" He was still scrambling for an apology when she had to bite back her lip in an effort to restrain a laugh.

"How is it possible, that after all of this – after everything I've done to you – you can still be patient, and so perfect?" It was an odd dilemma where she felt the words weren't enough, but she hoped her own simple speech was enough for him.

"Hey, I'm not perfect. Nobody's perfect, you might be-"

"One, you know that's totally false and, two, you're contradicting yourself. You shouldn't do that if you want your point to be understood by your audience," she quickly admonished. Hermione's brain had snapped to attention at the previous inactivity, and his absurd compliment was just the first, and liveliest, prey in her sights.

"Hermione, it's hard to call you anything but what I want, you know that right? You know that's what I mean when I say that?" Hermione looked at him with a puzzled expression, again feeling a strange surge of pride and all-consuming affection, "Don't make me get up – the ring's in my trousers."

What had she done to deserve a second, no third, chance? Hermione understood what he was trying to say, but she still couldn't believe her ears. Ron had always been the one that cared for her, even when he had more than a couple broken bones and a mild concussion, and he was trying to ask her to marry him again. This man who watched over her when she sick like a powerful wolf does its youngest pups, who neglected to spend any money on anything that wasn't for her or that had her interests in mind, and was close to bending on one knee with a nearly collapsed ribcage was astonishing. If her theory about what he meant was correct, she would rather wash a hippogriff den for a living than let him go again, though she gave a slight internal laugh at the idea of Ron being okay with that situation.

She stood up and walked over to the pile of clothes at the foot of the cot, carefully deciding on her steps and where to place the next one as if this was anything more than a trivial question at this point. It was just a formality that Ron had imagined her to want and if Ron thought Hermione wanted something, he would go to ludicrous ends to achieve it. That thought made her stomach give an unexpected rumble that she had to rush to shove down – she still disbelieved somewhere that he was so forgiving and that this was all a side-effect of the concussion. His brain had been rattled and in the rush he had momentary short term memory loss, she concluded.

With that point of knowledge firmly prescribed, she found the final few steps and reaching into the pocket of his trousers to be less stressful. Maybe one day, she thought, that feeling would be so much easier to come by and without putting herself down every inch of the way. The small container, which had curious patches of material missing and was oddly crushed where it rested on her palm, made her heart flutter just like it had the first time she saw it by accident. It was even worse when she looked at the small, but expensively cut and quite clear sapphire that sat on the band. She wasn't lying when she said she never really liked staring at shiny trinkets in windows, but she was a person who understood quite clearly what this represented as more than a hunk of white-gold.

Hermione had usually chosen argument or dialogue over action to persuade people but Ron was, as usual, a different case. Many times over it had taken blunt force and more than implication to show him what she meant, and this case was familiar ground if far more extreme. She slipped the ring from its place with shaky hands and closed the box with a quiet snap before working it down the third finger of her left hand. The weight felt natural, albeit a bit too loose on her slender digits, and she had to take another deep breath before turning around and sitting down on the bed beside Ron.

His face registered confusion at first at seeing Hermione empty-handed but when she rested her newly jeweled hand on his cheek the effect was what she had hoped for. If it weren't for sedatives she was sure he would be complaining about the pain in his side after she added her weight to the cot. Instead he mumbled something about how far away she was and grabbed her other arm, pulling her directly into his path as he sat up. Her lips met his and, although she was eager to keep her tongue firmly in place where it was, they quickly parted after scraping his bottom lip gingerly with her teeth. Actions, she had to remind herself.

"So, you're saying you'll still have me?" despite her reminder, she needed to know. Later she would ask him why, but the present dictated a need for an answer. Ron only gave her a laugh, and not a low short one, but the hearty one that had a slow burn resembling his usual good cheer.

"You really are something, aren't you?" he whispered in her ear as he approached her to resume the kiss from earlier.

Ron's words were a salve for their shared wounds, and even if she would look back on this night as a violent reminder of how abruptly her mistakes could make mountains of molehills, the destination was, all the same, relieving. She wouldn't know if Ron would wake up in a week, a year, or perhaps the next day, with a changed mind but Hermione wouldn't run away from even the possibility of seconds next to him. He deserved it, and so much more, but she decided she would make it her goal to live up to how Ron had acted that night – she would focus on it like another task to be completed and set her mind to it.

And if Hermione Granger – or should she start using a pretentious née, or perhaps a hyphenate, she thought before having her brains scrambled again with Ron's showy acrobatics inside of her mouth – set her mind to it, there were few obstacles she would not overcome.

* * *

_A/N: This is the last chapter, sans a prologue that will be relatively short. I have a few confessions to make, but first of all – thanks so much for reading and/or reviewing, since that just makes my day. Really it does, folks. When you're stressing over an exam, a little red flag on the mail client makes the next exception to some wonky rule in Calc a little bit more bearable._

_Now, onto the speech. This was, surprise surprise, inspired by a dream I had where I was placed in a situation similar to Ron's. While I know this is bad form, I pretty much molded him into my shoes and replaced the woman opposite me with Hermione, though I did obviously change a lot of characterization and such so as to make it more than 1 000 words long. It fit so remarkably well that I had to immediately start writing it down and this was born of it. Ron's devotion and loyalty are things that many people neglect to notice, but it's something I always loved about his character – it's something I wish I was capable of and, thus, the reasoning behind the dream._

_The other confession is that I had far too much fun reading reviews damning Hermione and trying to protect Ron. You guys and gals are great, if only that you make me think my characterizations are worth defending, but nonetheless… thanks. _

_JR_


	6. Epilogue - All Along

_A/N: I apologize for this epilogue taking longer to update, especially since it's so short. I was fighting a massive head cold by the time the last chapter got pushed up and after that my shoulder got wrecked. Writing with a rotator cuff disorder isn't too bad so far, but when frozen shoulder sets in it can actually hurt to write for longer than a handful of minutes, haha. I think my body is fighting the fanfic in me, but I will persevere for the fans(?)!_

* * *

Thirty-five thousand and forty hours. Hermione had counted nearly half of those in a dank cave, a smattering in a warm bed just across a river adjacent to the place where a hermetical group of goblins lived, and was now staring at a piece of paper that held the most relieving piece of news of the mere twenty-nine thousand plus hours she had been along with Amos Diggory. The parchment was simply a treaty, but to her it was so much more – it marked success, ambition, and most importantly a chance to leave the hellhole she had been living in for just over three years. It wasn't that she disliked the job or the opportunity, but the place was a nightmare because she had been dreading the day coming back for reasons that eluded her still.

His letters had come daily for nearly two months, which had surprised her and been a comfort as they were nothing more than recounts of horrible amounts of paperwork and other mundane things. Then the days started slipping by between each of them, and before long, they stopped coming except for a monthly report. The gentle ribbing and written flirtation turned into what read like a bullet-point list, much to Hermione's worry and dismay. The month and a half of marriage that they actually had before the years of separation were finally getting to him, she had confirmed to herself. Even so, she was determined to talk to him and settle things personally and not over some detached letter like she had considered for a few weeks before the drafting process had finished.

After bidding a painfully long goodbye to Mr. Diggory and Brodrig the Boss-Eyed, who had taken a liking to her that she neglected to mention in her letters to Ron, Hermione took a ride through the pressured tube that had become almost unfamiliar in her time spent with goblins. Apparation hadn't been too important as the Brotherhood of Goblins was located in one general area and she never really had the time go elsewhere when working with so many needy clans of goblins and the perfunctory superiority that wizards could sometimes relay in their treaties. Amos had promised her plenty of vacation time after this, and she wasn't waiting to use it.

Hermione didn't know what to expect when she entered the flat that Ron still, inexplicably, owned. She had told him to use some of his growing fortune – he always tossed aside the comment, but coming around five years living on the barest necessities in lower-class housing had positive side effects on his personal wealth – to just buy a house and be done with it. His original insistence against it and subsequent lack of mention at all had been one of the reasons she was scared, but she of course never told him that.

So when Hermione attempted to open the front door only to feel the resistance of the locks against her, she wanted to slump down right there and just give up. She thought she was trying as hard as she could but it seemed like it wasn't enough and though memories of the ceremony and prospects of a future had been excitedly hopping up and down in her mind, Hermione could feel her chest constricting in a familiar pain - she'd made another mistake.

* * *

Ron was scrambling furiously, looking between every sheaf and in every drawer for the set of keys he had always had on him. Well, except for the part where he was searching frantically for them. He couldn't even rightly recall why he had lost track of the keys, just that it would be his head if he had left Hermione's things at the flat without properly moving them. He had meant to mention it in a letter, but raids had become far too frequent for his liking and he didn't feel the need to give Hermione more to worry about beyond her already busy schedule. Instead of having fun writing to her, which was a definite first, he had been forced to examine his words carefully so as to not let either his move or the raids slip.

Shouting in exasperated victory, Ron clutched the keys that had been hiding beside a mug of curious liquid that an intern had claimed to be tea. Shaking off the moment where a drink had outwitted him, he quickly collected his coat and made it out of the office in an imagined hurry. Hermione would still be gone for anywhere between nine and fifteen months he figured and he would have all the time in the world to clean out the flat, but he knew how badly that could turn out if he let 'all the time in the world' play out. Somewhere along the line something had rubbed off on him, or someone.

So when he saw that someone lying in a heap against the door of his former flat, Ron had to remember not to maul her in public and to question what had made her so upset.

"When'd you get back?" Okay, he thought, that was a start. In almost immediate response Hermione had turned around and looked up at him with evidence of a fairly recent cry across her face, and the surprise showed on Ron's face because she quickly turned away and wiped at her eyes. After a few seconds of sniffling she turned back around and spoke.

"When were you going to tell me?" Her question didn't even seem to be related his, so Ron only raised his eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders in place of the question, "That you were done with me. You changed the lock, you know."

Ron breathed a sigh of relief before a flooring wave of guilt hit him – he really hadn't told her had he, and now she was asking _that _question? This woman was so endearing but silly sometimes.

"Nah, just moved. It's a nice place." He didn't know why he was leading her along like this – perhaps a bit of universal justice coming out through him – but he had already spoken when she cringed. He tried to amend his statement, but she already interrupted him before he could finish his thought.

"I wish you would have told me. I know I came early, but it would have been at least _cordial _to mention it…"

Ron didn't let her finish, mostly to save a sight of tears on her day back, before he had closed the distance between them and pulled her into the kind of hug that he had only given two people in his life. It was the kind of embrace that silenced whoever was talking with a physical "shut up" and a bone-crushing grip all at the same time. His mother had gotten one after Fred's death, and Hermione had the other one at just the same time.

"You'll love it, Hermione. It's got three bedrooms, you know for when we have kids, and then there's the…" His words were fading into her hair when she moved her head around and pulled him down by his collar and planted the most aggressive kiss she had ever initiated. Normally he was the one to do the cheesy sweep-the-girl-off-her-feet gymnastics, but she had taken control and he quite liked it. He didn't care if it was a mention of children, the fact that he was even thinking about children, or just that he was still hers – though he imagined it was a combination of all three – Ron didn't care. Somehow, after six years of tumultuous but stubborn friendship and nearly six years of equally fervid love, that kiss had blinded him and given his questions a quick end to their reign of terror.

Time, and words it turned out, had been a friend all along. Maybe a bit more like a George or Fred trickster-demon than a Harry-type of friend, but nonetheless time had only made things stronger. Ron didn't have to hope for days like these with Hermione, he had already spent well over a decade with these memories and the feeling hadn't slackened at all. From here on out it could only be uphill, right?

* * *

_A/N: So sue me, I gave myself a little bit of an out for a followup. I've never written Rose or Hugo, so that should be a fun little adventure._


End file.
